


The Back of the Van

by jpgr1963



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:39:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jpgr1963/pseuds/jpgr1963
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An additional chapter to <b><i>The Contract</i></b>.  This very naughty and silly bit takes place in Scotland immediately after Chapter 7. Originally posted at McLennonLand on LiveJournal in 2011. </p><p>Disclaimer: This is pure fiction, nothing in this story is real, just all make believe, no intention of libel, no implied ownership, so chillax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Back of the Van

 

**Scotland, 1960**

 

The back of the white van was fairly dark, except for faint rays of yellowed light seeping in at random moments through the windscreen from the car park light post.  Soon dawn would break, the start of another May day in the Scottish Highlands for two young Scousers far from home, hungry and skint and falling in love with each other, falling a bit more each day—though neither of them were anywhere near close to admitting it, even to themselves, let alone close to saying such dangerous words out loud to each other. Crossing  _that_ line in the sand would take time, and whatever enchanting license it was that permeated the cobblestone streets of Paris.

"I can't see fuckin' shite back 'ere!" 

Seated on the floor, wearing only a damp black t-shirt, leaning against the backside of the seat bench in the old battered van, Paul could hear John's frustrated, raspy growl, but he could hardly see his mate. In the dimness, he could make out little more than a muted shape crawling about on its hands and knees. A bit of lamp light unexpectedly revealed the smooth, pale curves of John's naked bum on the opposite side of the compartment.

Paul's breath hitched sharply as he ran his fingers through his hair.   The sight of that firm, freckled arse comically scrambling about the back of the van sent a wave of delicious ache through his crotch. He recalled that incredible sensation of thrusting his stiff prick into his best friend's hot, snug rump.

Inside  _John_. 

In his mind, his senses rapidly re-lived every tremor and vibration of their first proper shag in the front seat—John crouched face forward over his lap, greedily offering up his maiden arse. The burning and slippery tightness, the salty copper taste of that frantic bite, the strange smell of that translucent, oily lubricant. And hell, when John finally exploded in ecstasy, spewing his juice over his stomach and a string of incoherent curses into the air, Paul remembered the way those strong muscles clenched in spasms around the entire length of his hard prick, enticing every drop of cream out of him.

Cor, it was better than anything Paul had ever experienced with even the fittest of Pool snatches.  

Christ, he fucking relished the illicit pleasures of shagging another lad. It was rough and yet tender, satisfying to the fucking pit of his groin. No awkward fumbling, no unnecessary complications, none of those horseshit promises he always had to say to get a skirt to open her thighs.  Bum fucking another beautiful boy was intoxicating, Paul had decided. And shagging his handsome best mate was damn well perfect.  Even if it was in a grotty van in an isolated castle car park.

And now it was his turn. Paul's turn to be the bird. 'Act Two,' John had snarled at him just a few minutes ago with a wicked smirk. And now here they were, in the back of the van.

But John was a fuckload bigger... thicker... than the single finger Paul had carefully pushed up into his own arse during a recent wanking session in his Forthlin bedroom. Experimenting and exploring and all.

Shit. "I'm over 'ere, Johnny."

Turning around towards the sound, John heard Paul's soft, melodic voice waver and crack with a high-pitched creak. 

Christ, the beautiful lad sounded scared.

Perhaps he wouldn't go through with it. Perhaps Paul would pull away and reject him straight up. Perhaps they should just stop now and drive back to that hole of a hostel in Inverness, filled to the brim with farting tossers. Catch a couple of hours of kip. But John couldn't be sure if his ears were playing tricks on him. He needed to see Paul's face, look into those big dark eyes for the truth.  Despite all his bravado, Lennon was more frightened than his younger mate would have ever suspected.  John could still hide many of his deepest fears; Paul hadn't yet been allowed into some of Lennon's darkest corners.  The terror of rejection by someone he needed, someone he actually fucking wanted in his life, was the worst demon currently haunting his fragile nineteen-year-old gut.

Slinking over like a blind cat, tube of lube clenched tightly in his curled left hand, John finally found his friend when their noses nearly touched. Paul's eyes were strangely unfocused, his lids thick and droopy. Lifting Paul's chin up gently with his right hand, John whispered.

"Y'alright, luv?" 

"M'fine." Paul squeaked, pressing his face like a puppy into John's palm. The warmth of John's cradling touch helped soothe some of his raging anxiety.

"Can I ask ya something, John?"

"Yeah."

"How bad did it hurt? Be honest then." 

"Huh? What are ya on about?

"Ya know...” Paul lifted a brow and cocked his head toward the front seat bench.

"Oh, that. Didn't hurt—not really.  Felt a bit odd though at first."

"Right."

"Have ya never finger fucked yerself, Paul?"

"Yeah, I 'ave. But yer, um... different, ya know." Paul cocked his eyebrow again, his fingers twiddling nervously.

"By different ya mean bloody enormous, right?"

"Yeah, ya pompous nit."  Paul chuckled and swallowed.

 Paul didn't say another word as John stared into his eyes; the dark haired boy tapped his fingers mindlessly against his own bare thigh, looking around as if he could find some reassurance on his own. When he started biting anxiously on his thumbnail, John nearly lost his own nerve.

"Did that poof Inny teacher of yers tell ya it hurts?"

"No, he didn't say that. It's just... well, seems like it would, ya know?"

"Paul, I would have stopped ya with me fuckin' fist if it bloody well hurt."

_Yer making it fuckin' worse, Lennon. Seduce him, ya daft sod!  Use your low shaggin' voice, ya stupid fuck._

"Shit, Paul. It feels amazin'. Couldn't ya tell? Listen... you, my son, are one right talented arse poker _._ Best shag of me life "

 Paul chortled softly under his breath, shaking his head, and then he lifted his face to look at John, his large eyes still filled with palpable doubt and concern.

 "Paul, we'll go slow.  I know what to do. How to find that... spot or button or whatever the fuck it is. Trust me, luv."

Leaning in, John ran his fingers through Paul's thick quiff, pulling him closer, feeling the hesitation in Paul's rigid torso. Softly he kissed his plump, luscious mouth, nibbling on the edges of those lips here and there, praying that the boy would just succumb to his mouth and moan with abandon.

But fucking Paul wouldn't completely relax and give himself up, give in to John's ball-burning needs and his own randy curiosity. He must have known how bloody great it felt.  Didn't John make that perfectly fucking blatant?  With a silent grunt of a huff, John finally reached down and took hold of Paul's half-limp shaft, stroking it hard and rough, the way the boy liked his prick to be manhandled, even though he'd never said as much with words.  John tongue kissed and pumped and seduced until eventually he felt the lad begin to surrender himself under his skillful, patient fingers. Catching his breath, John broke a sinfully deep kiss and murmured.

"That's right. There ya go."

"John..."

Paul pulled back slightly, his muscles tense once more.

"Sshhh. Budge up and turn yerself this way then."

"John, luv..."

"For shit's sake, what are ya scared of, Paul? I told ya it won't hurt.  Not afraid of gettin' fuckin' preggars, are ya?"

John sighed with a snort, fighting to stay ahead of his reckless temper, softening his exasperation with jest and a wink.

"I dunno.  Reckon I'm just confused is all. I'm not sure that I wanna be... queer, John."

"It's a bit fuckin' late for that now, isn't it?"

"Ya know what I mean."

"No, I fuckin' don't. And if ya think for one tit of a minute I'm gonna be the only one that takes it up..."

"No. Shit, Johnny.  Fuck, don't mind me.  I'm just bloody nervous. I've never done this."

"Neither had I, ya beautiful shit.  And yer not  _queer_ queer.  Yer my skirt chasin' wanker of a best mate. Sort of queer, some of the time. With me. Right? This... us... it's just the two of us, it's between just you and me, yeah?"  He moved closer and kissed Paul so softly on the lips that Paul barely felt it, before John pulled back an inch to gaze intensely into his eyes.

"Now stop being such a fuckin' frigid virgin about it and get over 'ere." With a seductive snarl, John leaned in again, slowly dripping the silky syllables effortlessly off his tongue.

"Paul, I'll never hurt ya."

 Simple and real. No sugarcoated meaningless promises or wasted, false words.

It was just John.

Until it wasn't anymore.

But that was years away. 

In Inverness on that spring night, Paul let go of his fears and capitulated, believing in his heart that John would never deliberately hurt him. 

"So, c'mere then."  John pulled the boy into an embrace, wrapping his arms tightly around Paul's shoulders, kissing him teasingly light on the side of his neck, just underneath Paul's left ear, until Paul moaned and slowly let his head fall back to rest against the bench back.

"Off with yer shirt then."  John brusquely pulled the wet cloth up and over Paul's head, carelessly throwing the shirt somewhere in the van. They had to take it slow, John kept reminding himself, though with the image of the boy now naked, the contours of his lithe body blurred by the shadows, John's cock grew hard as steel within moments.  With a couple of deliberate exhales, Lennon slowed his moves and forced his breathing to slow down.  In poor light and without his specs on, a bare-naked Paul resembled an androgynous siren from some archaic myth.  A perfectly formed, mesmerizing hermaphrodite phantasm. Fuck.  John licked his own lips in anticipation.

Then he pulled the younger lad away from the bench, just far enough to have the room to lay him down on his back on the floor of the van, on top of the old blanket they'd grown to appreciate that long day, in spite of the faint stench.  John started at his temples, sucking and kissing a wet path over the curves of Paul's sculpted features, lingering on his closed eyelids, on his precious perfect nose, on the tips of his lips.  When Paul tried to move his head to return the kisses, John wouldn't allow it; he firmly held his face in place by cupping and gripping his jaw, lifting his chin up to nibble on the sensitive skin above his Adam's apple until Paul hummed with a snicker.  Lennon's wolfish nostrils flared with lust; after what felt like hours of cajoling Paul to fucking relax, he would now demand that the boy be passive and submissive. Bloody damn obedient.  It was his turn, for shit's sake. He'd wanked off to fantasies of this for far too long; no one, including breathtaking, fuckable McCartney himself, would get in the way of John finally satisfying his secret, illegal cravings.

Still grasping the boy's jaw tightly between the fingers of his powerful right hand, pressing the tips into the skin of Paul's chin, John let his lips flutter down along his neck, over the hollows and boney ridges, working his way down to Paul's chest. Instinctively, as if shagging a bird, John's hungry mouth took turns sucking on and licking both erect nipples—sensitive, hard nubs recently encircled with young sprouts of soft adolescent curls.

"Shit, John! That feels... fuck, lemme move me face."

Paul cried out, encouraging Lennon to torment him with militant attention; the harder John sucked on his nipples, the harder Paul grabbed and tugged on John's curly tousle of amber hair, the more anguished Paul's wanton gasps of approval grew, filling up the space. Then John stopped abruptly, staring down into Paul's eyes.

"Spread yer legs for me, nice and wide."

"Jo..ohn."

"Now.   Don't fuckin' fight me anymore."

"Johnny..."

"Just me fingers first, baby.  Open you fuckin' thighs, McCartney!" 

 Paul gasped and complied with a husky whimper of a groan. He slowly separated his furry legs, propping the right one against the bench seat. He lay there, on his back, legs parted, like a nervous, innocent school bird. Ready, sort of.

"That's right. Yer gonna be a good little lad for me, aren't ya?"  John snarled like a deranged lion possessed, as his squeezed some of the slimy lube all over the fingers of his left hand, still holding Paul's face frozen in place by the jaw with his right. Paul could barely move his head, but John felt a slight tremble of a nod 'yes' and kissed him softly on the lips as an affectionate reward for his surrender.  

And Paul hadn't expected that it would feel this fucking delicious to be under John's complete control of him; nor had he ever been so bloody randy, willing to do anything demanded of him.  In the back of the van that balmy Scottish evening, every tingling fiber of Paul belonged to John Lennon, without question. He spread his legs apart a bit further without being told to do so, and lifted his narrow hips up towards John's slick fingers.

"Easy now, luv... s'just two fingers."  Paul couldn't breathe at first, as John twisted and rotated his wrist, pushing his slippery fingers in deep, slow but unwaveringly steady. Finally, when Paul gasped, sucking in a thirsty gulp of air, John slowly pulled nearly all of the way out, caressing circles with his calloused fingertips just inside Paul's sensitive entrance.

John covered Paul's mouth with his own, kissing ferociously until he was sure the lad's lips would swell with flush.  Full and tender and pink. 

Then he added a third finger to the prepping game.

"Oh shit.  Bloody hell, John..."

The maple haired young man, propped up now on one elbow, just watched in delight as Paul's face twisted and contorted with every inch of penetration, every slippery stroke. Ah, right there, John realized, feeling the distinctive squishy bump high up in Paul's bum.  And once again Paul couldn't catch his breath, couldn't utter a fucking sound as John began stroking his prostate in a deliberate, tantalizing rhythm.  Hard.  Back and forth with his forceful finger thrusts.

John stared at Paul's mouth as the boy writhed and wriggled underneath him. That fucking brilliant mouth.  Still deep inside, John readjusted his position so that he could touch those lips with his right hand. Two fingers tracing over them, pushing slightly until Paul parted them and allowed John's fingers into his wet warmth. With his eyes shut tight, Paul sucked and licked and smiled at the taste.

"Mmm... so fucking... good. Ya've... got beautiful... bloody hands." Paul mumbled.

And then John finally felt it—felt Paul push back against his bum fucking hand, squirming and gyrating his hips up, higher and higher, to get more and more, to get John's fingers deeper.

"John..."

"Mmm... there ya go, luv. That's right. Fuck yerself on me, baby."

When it seemed that the lad was close to losing it, John pulled his thick bundle of finger love out and flipped himself around, straddling his package over Paul's face, shiny now with streams of sweat. With his right hand, John grabbed his own pulsing hard on and brushed Paul's lips lightly with the moist tip of his dripping cock. Paul didn't need to be told; he opened his mouth and took John down his throat eagerly, humming and delirious and finally ready. He felt John's heavy sack press against his closed eyes; he inhaled the musky scent of his mate's generously sized balls.  Leaning down to kiss Paul's thigh, John reached his hand under the boy's hipbone and then impaled him again, slow but hard.  Three fingers again, twisting and turning as deep as he could reach—fucking his beautiful, round arse with his talented fingers, fucking Paul's swollen mouth with his throbbing cock. 

"Christ, yer gorgeous, Paul." John growled into the softer flesh on the inside of Paul's shuddering thigh.

Shit, he had to stop.  Paul winced and groaned in frustration when John simultaneously withdrew from his bum and his face.

"Roll over, luv. Now.  On yer knees, arse up in the air for me."

Trembling and shaking uncontrollably, Paul tried to obey, but too slowly.  John grabbed him by the hips and roughly maneuvered him into position, forcing his legs apart immediately with his own, pushing Paul's upper body down on collapsed elbows, face buried in the stinking old blanket. 

And then, out of nowhere, John slowed the whole act down with light, teasing butterfly kisses all over the sinful curves of Paul's round bum, his thumb pads stroking lightly over Paul's greased rim, his fingers holding his cheeks firmly apart, spreading him wide open. Vulnerable and submitting and waiting.

"Fuckin' hell! John, please..."  Paul would have sworn his could feel John smile against his tender, warm skin, had he been at all coherent.

"What do ya want, Paul?"

"I want you, Johnny.  Only you... please... please just take me."

John rolled back on his heels and greased his length up good and slick with all of the remaining lube. Again, he pressed the burning, moist tip of his purple cock against Paul. The beautiful lad's bum hole was as sweet and delightful a prize as his sinfully fuckable mouth.  Perhaps even more, John reckoned.

"I'm gonna do it now, Macca.  Ya ready?"

Paul just nodded into the blanket and then groaned pathetically, sounding like an injured animal, when John's swollen head slowly breached his puckered, slippery hot hole. 

"Holy bloody...” John growled, as the tightness of the beautiful boy's body hugged and squeezed him with every slow, deliberate move forward, deeper.  When he was buried up to his ball sack, John leaned down on his shaky, bent arms and groaned into Paul's hair.

"Christ. Did I feel... like this?"

"Yes." 

One simple affirmative word.  No empty promises.

"I'm not gonna last long, Paul.  Fucking hell, yer so bloody tight."

"Fuck me, Johnny." 

John wrapped both hands around Paul's waist and grabbed hold of his prick, pumping him up and down, in rhythm with his thrusts. In far less time than it should have taken, John's powerful, possessive thrusts deep inside his bum, rubbing hard against his prostate, sent Paul over the edge; his hands intertwined behind his head, tangled in his own sopping wet hair, he ejaculated another exquisite load of sticky lad batter with a muffled cry into the crevasses of the well-worn blanket. Several moments later, after a dozen or so forceful drives into Paul's spent, shivering body, John emptied himself inside the boy, his ecstatic groans slowly softening to whimpering, gravelly giggles. His arms gave out; he fell hard on Paul with a thud, burying his face between his mate's soaked shoulder blades.

Turning his head to the side for air, John whispered between gasping breaths.

"M'not... crushin' ya, am I?"

"No, s’fine. I'm not... a bird, John." Paul hummed with a snort.

"Shit, Paul. That was bloody amazing. Fucking incredible."

"Yeah, incredible. Stay inside for a bit." Paul murmured back, as John began to tenderly kiss the line of his shoulder blade.

 "S'long as I can, Macca." More soft kisses hummed affectionately along the goose bumps of Paul's shoulder.  They rested there on the floor quietly recovering, their soaked bodies practically melting into one another.

 

_Thump, thump, thump!_

 

Three loud bangs on the back door of the van. Their eyes suddenly shot wide open; John pulled himself out of Paul sharply and rolled away, while his mate was at the same time quickly jerking himself up from his prone position.

"What the fuck!"  Paul could barely hear John's whispered curse of panic.

"Hello! Is anyone in there? C'mon now, the castle is closed. Ya can't loiter here in the park."

 

_Thump, thump, thump!_

 

"Don't hear anything, Sergeant. Abandoned perhaps." The junior constable mumbled.  His shift was nearly over and he only wanted to go home to his comfortable bed and his warm wife.

"Go round up to the front and see if it's locked, Bradley."

"Get our trousers!" John whispered into Paul's wet mop of hair.

Naked and right well fucked, Paul scooted up to the bench and stuck his hand underneath and through the gap, to the floor of the front seat. His long fingers groped about in the dark, searching for the distinct texture of leather.

Ah-ha, got it!

He pulled his hand back and tossed the item to John.

John's trousers.  John shimmied into them in seconds.

Right.

Paul's left hand shot back under and felt around desperately, back and forth... every fucking where.

Nothing.

The handle to driver's door rattled with movement. They hadn't thought to lock the van. They'd get caught. Paul was starkers and in a panic as he tried to gather his wits. They'd be arrested, for certain—for bloody buggering no less. He turned back to look at John, shaking his head, his face filled with fear; John's heart cracked at the sight of Paul's intense terror and the tears welling up in his wide eyes. 

"Get under the blanket!" John said the words low but urgently.  Paul dove over and pulled the blanket up over himself, curling up in a ball. He froze, as John took a deep breath, and opened the back door of the van.

"Hello, sir. Sorry to park 'ere but I'd nowhere else to go after me girl threw me sorry arse out. I'm not hurting anyone. Just trying to catch a bit more kip before work."  John tried to put on his most innocent looking expression; it wasn't very good.

"Where are you from, son?"

"Liverpool, sir. Live up 'ere in Inverness now. Followed me 'eart and all. So 'ave ya got any advice on how to get yer girl back after ya've had a few too many benders?" 

"Sounds as if she'd be better off without you, lad. Where do you work?" 

John mind spun, trying to concoct a believable story. 

"At a chip shop at the moment, on the way to Loch Ness. Have ya seen Nessie, sir?"

"No. That's just a legend. Listen, young man. You can't camp here. Show me your driving license and van papers?" 

John swallowed another lump. Fuck. 

"Can't, sir. Left 'em back at me house."

"No license, no papers, parked unlawfully on government property? You're coming down to the station for a wee chat.  Out of the van.  Bradley, search the vehicle to be sure lover boy here hasn't forgotten to tell us something else."

"Yes, Sergeant.  Ya hiding anything in here, laddie? Anything illegal?"

Bradley turned his torch light to the inside of the back and spotted the blanketed lump.

"What do we have here?"

Paul shut his eyes tight. How would he ever explain this to the police? To his dad?

Suddenly, a holler of a ghostly scream bellowed out from the nearby clump of trees 

"Be off, you filthy lot of brigands!"

The dead king glided impossibly fast towards them, arms spread out like a mad crow, brandishing a shiny sword, his regal robes and long grey beard flowing down, his transparent body floating a yard off the ground.

"Away from my castle or I'll run you through!"

John didn't hesitate. He jumped back in the van and shut the doors, locking them, while two trembling Scottish policemen, one of whom had already wet himself in his uniform trousers, jumped back in their patrol car screaming like wee lassies and sped off, faces as pale as ghosts.

Paul lifted up the blanket, his hair a ruffled, shagged mess.  "What the fuck was that?!"

"Dunno, luv. A bloody ghost or something. Didn't get a real look at it without me glasses. Shit, let's get the fuck outta 'ere!"

Paul found his crumpled clothes and dressed faster than he'd ever done in his short life.  He threw the van into gear and raced out of the park, hoping like hell that the police weren't somewhere waiting for them.  They weren't.  Duncan had made sure of that, flying right behind the patrol car for over a mile off the castle property before disappearing into thin air, cackling like a madman. Spooking constables was a favorite past time.  Wankers.

"Do ya think it was actually a ghost or some spirit thing?"

"Dunno what else it could have been, Paul."

"Pfft... I don't believe in ghosts! Must 'ave been something else."

They drove towards the city center, back in the direction of the hostel, neither saying a word until Paul broke the silence.

"Shit, John. We nearly got fuckin' caught! They would've arrested us, ya know!"

"Maybe ya should believe in ghosts, ya narrow-minded twit. Never know when you'll need one, Macca." John snorted and winked at Paul as he pushed he glasses up his nose and looked out the window at the first hints of a perfect amber sunrise.

 

 

  
  
  



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